Mr V's Marching Band
by Silmarwen Vanimedle
Summary: The Parkside Marching Band had not made regional finals in over ten years. The crazy new band director and his incredibly hot son might just be able to turn all of that around.
1. Prologue

The Parkside High School Marching Band had not made regional finals in over ten years. With an ensemble of spoiled students, a failing staff, and no support from anyone outside the program, it was easy to see why. It wasn't that the school couldn't provide the right resources; Parkside was one of the richest communities in the state. It wasn't that the students weren't talented; they hit the right notes most of the time while in step. What was missing were all the things that make a marching band special: pride, perseverance, friendship, and determination. Those sort of things couldn't be ordered or taught; they had to be inspired. Parkside High School didn't realize that until old Mr. Hammons quit, and Mr. Gustav Alexander Vandirhoffen took his place.

I was a sophomore dreading another year of unproductive practices and embarrassing football games. I enjoyed going to school at Parkside because the campus was beautiful. The design and grounds competed with state colleges, and the buildings were all in excellent condition. Parkside was after all full of rich important people; my parents were some of the less important and rich people, but still there. That's why I was at Parkside. The academics were great, the sports teams did decently, and the student body was a good size. The band, however, was a disaster.

The band program had been horrible for years, and the orchestra and choir weren't much better. Lots of people asked why they didn't just end the music department, but that would cause the question of why would a nice school like Parkside not have a marching band? It was for appearances, and that was basically all we did. We appeared at football games and played our crummy fight song no more than four times; we marched our show for an empty stadium all waiting in line at the snack stand. We appeared at practice and went through the motions Mr. Hammons grumbled. We appeared at pep rallies and played one of three second-hand Sousa marches once or twice, and that was about it.

I loved playing clarinet. I thought it was fun and challenging; I wasn't very good, but I knew I could be. With that little bit of hope, I kept at it. My mother also forced me to stay in band. She knew if I gave up, I'd regret it. So far, I've been glad to have that excuse of "my mom won't let me quit" because I never have. Unfortunately, the Parkside Marching Lions didn't make it that much fun. That was until Mr. Vandirhoffen came. Students would be in awe, band girls would fall in love with his amazing son, football games would be the highlight of the week, and an entire school would be changed—forever.

Well, to best explain everything, I better go back to the beginning.


	2. Mr V and Son

Two weeks before school started, the members of the Parkside High School Marching Band filed into the freshly clean and well lit band hall at eight o'clock in the morning. The award-losing cast seemed to be pretty much the same with a few new fresh and curious faces. There was Troy Slater, the hot-shot trumpet player (a staple member for any band) who always looked like he stepped out of a magazine ad. He was a senior this year, so his reign was in full swing. The drum majors were Mike Dawson and Luke Rogers, two guys who meant well but didn't do much. The drumline still had Ben Rogers (a cousin to Luke) goofing off on bass with Kevin Kroger on center snare. My section leader was Kristie Villain, one of the most popular girls in school. Kristie was nice fifty-five minutes out of the day, but when the bell rang, she put away her clarinet and her general intelligence. Natalie and Nate Norman—mellophone twins—were back, which I did not like at all. They were bratty, spoiled, and always showed off how great they were. If it weren't for guys like Jake Lawson and Harvey Mortemore on trombone and tuba always cracking jokes, I simply wouldn't survive. Of course there was Hannah, my best friend and aspiring flautist.

Mr. Tiller, the assistant director, stepped onto Mr. Hammons' podium and clapped his hands. We all stopped chattering and messing with our horns to see him instead of our mindless leader. This was strange—Mr. Hammons always greeted us first. Of course, there had been lots of rumors that he wasn't coming back.

"Welcome back, students," Mr. Tiller stuttered. "It's nice to see so many faces have returned after a long summer."

"Obviously not long enough for you, Tiller," Troy shouted from the back. Everyone laughed at the poor pale man. He couldn't help he looked like a turtle.

"Thank you, Troy," Mr. Tiller glared. "I have some bad news concerning our head director. It appears he's resigned." The response was a mix of moans, questions, and cheers. I turned to Hannah and sighed.

"Great, now we don't even have someone to at least pretend he's directing us," I groaned.

"Hey, maybe we'll get some young cute grad student," Hannah mused. "They do that, you know, student teach."

"When a grad student start checking out sophomores in high school, we'll start requesting student teachers," I answered. We were going to get someone who didn't know what the heck they were doing. Tiller was waving his hands, wanting us to quiet.

"Now, kids," he said, "don't be discouraged. Our new head director is really gifted. His name is Gustav Alexander Vandirhoffen—Mr. Vandirhoffen to you, and he has worked with many different bands like ours." There was a slight pause of silence before everyone burst out laughing. I had to admit I too was rolling on the carpeted floor; I mean come on, Gustav Alexander Vandirhoffen? He sounded like a German accordion player. Mr. Tiller had to be kidding. Any minute now, Mr. Hammons would step out in his tacky striped tie and black slacks and say this was all some sort of stupid joke. Instead, the doors leading outside burst open, and the hot sunlight poured in.

A middle-aged man stepped into the building with the gusto of a circus clown; his dark brown hair was completely messy, and his black-rimmed glasses were crooked on his nose. He wore a maroon T-shirt with blue plaid shorts and tennis shoes. He had a mellophone in one hand and a suitcase in the other. We all stared like deer in headlights.

"Thanks for the introduction, Ernie!" the man shouted with a big grin. Now we were terrified. "Good morning, future Beethovens and Bon Jovis! My name is Mr. V!" He strode across the front of the room and practically shoved Tiller off the step. I had to chuckle at that. "I am quite excited to work with you young geniuses," he said, staring at us with wild eyes. "I see a band that will go far to many places."

"You walked into the wrong building, buddy," Jake snickered, and everyone followed suit.

"Wrong, young Master of the Slide!" Everyone kept on chuckling out of nervous confusion. Who was this guy? "I have found the exact place! Come in, Elijah!" Someone else was coming, I guess. Some of us turned to the doorway, and those who did were treated with one of the most beautiful boys on the planet.

Imagine if you could a dark blonde eighteen-year-old god with incredible blue eyes and a big sweet smile with two perfect arms on either side of a tank top holding a trumpet and a water bottle. Every girl in the room collectively gasped; this was new meat and the dogs were hungry. He was a work of art; there was no other way to put it. He adjusted the baseball cap sitting backwards on his head and stopped. "That is the hottest boy that has ever walked through that door," Hannah said in a low whisper.

"Where in the world did he come from, and why is he holding a trumpet?" I whimpered, wondering if this was another cruel joke. There was no way he could be in band—our band.

"This is my son, students, and your newest mate," Mr. V proudly introduced. "Elijah, take a seat at the end of the trumpet line."

"What part do you play?" Troy immediately asked before Elijah had even crossed the room. I guess it was a little too obvious that the girls were watching him like loyal puppies, and Troy was used to running the kennel.

"Third," Elijah said with a grin. Can a boy have a cute voice? Elijah did.

"Third?" Troy repeated with disdain. "Are you that bad?"

"Elijah always plays third," Mr. V interrupted with his obnoxiously loud tone. "That is his part." Elijah took a seat and gave a brief nod to his new classmates before Mr. V stole his audience back. "Now, if you will please play a concert G!" Everyone moaned and stood to their feet with their horns. I looked around the room at the different instruments; the kids at Parkside all had very nice horns. I myself had just gotten a new one and was eager to see how it played. Mr. V lifted his hands as if he were directing a symphony of one hundred and we all took a weak breath sporadically. The sound coming out was pretty good—for us. Mr. V cut us off, and we all wondered what this nut was going to do next. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. After a few moments of weird humming, he thrust his hand into the air.

"Outside!" he shouted.

"Outside?" we answered back. We didn't practice outside—ever. It was hot. We would get sweaty. Our horns would get hot and sweaty.

"Take the drums outside?" Ben whimpered.

"It's hot outside!"

"My hair will frizz!"

"People will see us!"

"I'll sweat!"

"Outside, right away," Mr. V repeated with a strange authority. We stared at him for a few more moments before slowly walking to the door. When the door opened, the brightness of the outside hit us like some sort of heat storm. Already things were bad.


	3. Hot Sun, Hot Boy

We didn't play music outside. At evening rehearsals, we would learn a few sets for a lame and short show, but going outside for music rehearsal was insane. We stood with our eyes squinted and fanning ourselves as Mr. V put us into a semi-circle. That was new as well.

"You," Mr. V said, pointing directly at me. I froze. "What is your name?"

"Allie," I blurted. "Allie Farlane."

"Arrange your fellow second clarinets behind the firsts." I nodded. Everyone slowly lined up beside me.

"This is so weird," Kevin, another clarinet groaned.

"Alright, my music masters, now we can properly play a concert G."

"Why?" someone whined. "It's too hot!"

"We must be outdoors in order to fill all of this fine air. There was simply not enough air indoors."

"That's a crock," Troy mumbled.

"It's very true," Mr. V replied seriously. "What is your name, young man?"

"Troy Slater," he answered. "I'm the section leader."

"Our bravest, no doubt," Mr. V replied, and a few kids laughed. He was probably being sarcastic. "Play for us a concert G." Troy shrugged his shoulders and lifted his silver trumpet that blinded half of us in the sun. He threw together a posture and produced a half-hearted note. "Wrong," Mr. V immediately identified.

"That was a G," Troy defended.

"It was a lazy G," Mr. V retorted. He lifted his mellophone and played—but it wasn't exactly a note. It wasn't even a partial. It was some sort of deflated moaning snort that sounded like a dying cow. A lot of people laughed at that.

"What was that?" Troy shouted.

"I don't play mellophone—I play saxophone," Mr. V explained. "The point is, I played with confidence, and that's very important."

"That was sick," Nate said, disgusted. "We are NOT sounding like that."

"Now Mr. Slater, play a confident concert G." Troy tried again. "Louder!" Troy played a bit stronger. "LOUDER!" Mr. V jumped. Troy scowled, determined to make him eat his words. He sucked in a barrel of air and blasted a bright G that made a few people perk up. It sounded…good. "Everyone must play with that confidence. Perhaps not at that volume, but confidence is essential."

Two hours later, we were sick of Mr. V's little hints. This game of standing outside was getting old. We were hot, tired, sweaty, and ready to quit band for good. We would do anything Mr. V said without arguing just so he would let us take a water break. We practiced scales—concerts B flat, E flat, and F. We played rhythms and fundamental exercises that we practiced in the sixth grade. Mr. V picked up our names very quickly. It was hard paying attention to his strange requests while still checking out his super hot son, who was, by the way, a fantastic trumpet player—as good as Troy if not better. Hannah and I wondered why he was on third part. Mr. V didn't let Troy play loud enough to cover the whole section, like he usually did. He made the third parts play by themselves and asked the first chair players not to play. The rest of the players—like me on second clarinet—weren't that bad, too. It was fun to actually hear ourselves. Mr. V called that confidence, and apparently everyone needed some. We had just heard the second trombones play a clean set of eighth notes after the sixth try when Mr. V nodded and motioned for us to come and sit down. We sighed with relief and obeyed.

"Very good, very good," he congratulated with a smile. "We have already improved immensely." Kristie shot up her hand. "Yes, Miss Clarinet Ambassador?" We all thought his little titles were really, really weird.

"I know it's your first day," she began in her sweetest voice, "and you're probably figuring us all out, as we are you." A few people grumbled. "But usually Mr. Hammons didn't pay so much attention to detail. I mean, the first parts take care of that. And we definitely don't practice outside."

"Definitely," Fiona Marlow, the first flute seconded.

"I see," Mr. V said, pacing in front of us while we caught our breath. "There will be lots of changes, but I promise they will be for the better. I understand you all have not placed in the finals at the Regional Marching Band Fair in a while."

"Placed in finals? We get last place every single year," Luke sadly said.

"How would you like that to change, Master Commander?" Mr. V grinned.

"Don't get our hopes up," Mike begged. "We're awful."

"You are not awful," Mr. V snapped. We all leaned back a bit; that was harsh. "You are all fantastic students. You are full of potential and potential potential and the possibility of potential potential." That didn't make any sense at all. "All you need is instruction, and you will make the finals at regionals." A quiet freshman raised her hand. "Yes?" he asked.

"Can we really make regionals?" she asked quietly.

"We can." His answer was so sharp and confident, everyone began to whisper. Mr. Hammons didn't care. He never talked about getting better or contest or anything, and now this guy was saying we'd make finals, that is be one of the top ten best bands in our district. "It's easy," he chuckled. A few more students laughed. "You have to trust me."

"Yeah, we'll trust you all the way," Harvey sarcastically moaned.

"Then we'll be at regionals. Who's with me?" Nobody moved or said anything. "No one? No one wants to be one of the best?"

"Well, I do," Luke said hesitantly.

"Me too," Mike agreed.

"Me too, duh," Troy said. One by one, we all agreed. Mr. V smiled, satisfied.

"We have six hours a day for two weeks, my young scholars. Two hours will be spent on marching fundamentals. Two hours will be spent on learning drill. Two hours will be spent on music, and you must do everything I say." That sounded extreme, but we all believed him. He was crazy enough to work, and I guess we were too. We cheered in response and it was a done deal. "Inside then!" he shouted, and we hurried in as best we could, being so tired. As we all shuffled to the door, Troy and the rest of the trumpets cut in front of us clarinets.

"This guy's a total nut," Troy was saying to one of his friends. "We're in for a big let down."

"You sounded so much better, dude," the other guy, John I think, said. "I mean, we sound better already."

"So what? We wanted to get inside. It'll be over once school starts." Troy was such a downer. I was about to turn and say something to Hannah about it when Elijah knocked into my shoulder. I think I just about screamed.

"Sorry," he smiled in apology. I immediately grinned back and tried not to giggle like an idiot.

"It's OK," I gushed. "I mean, I should have been looking at you. I mean out for you." Oh God stop talking, Allie. He smiled a bit wider and let me step in front of him. I thought I was done embarrassing myself when I heard him ask my name.

"Huh?" I said, looking over my shoulder. He was still behind me.

"I'm Elijah."

"Allie. Welcome to Parkside."

"Thanks," he said, lingering by me as I wandered toward the side of the room. This guy knew I was blushing like mad—he's one sadistic puppy. "You're the first person that's said anything to me yet," he added. I blinked.'

"Oh, well, consider me your first friend." He beamed and nodded.

"Sure thing." I turned and tried not to run to Hannah, feeling very proud of myself. I don't care if Mr. V asked us to run around naked covered in chocolate syrup—his son was totally worth it.


	4. New Horns

One week had passed, and everything was completely chaotic. Our second Monday was promising to be something really weird. We were worn out, hot, and relearning things that Mr. V drilled endlessly. After all the cute little nicknames Mr. V gave us, some of the kids had a few for him, "the German Nazi" being the most popular. Secretly though, I was beginning to like him. He was so excited for us, and every little thing we improved on made him happy. It was as if he really, truly cared. With Mr. Hammons, I thought band was a necessity, and then Mr. V made it something to dread; but by that second Monday, I was eager to see what in the world he was going to do next.

New instruments. Everyone was talking about it when I stepped into the band room; I walked over to the usual place between the trumpets and the flutes to assemble my beloved Buffet and get to work on the music. Mr. V had picked out some songs from the musical "The Lion King". He thought it would be perfect for us—the Marching Lions—to make our comeback. We all liked it because it was something fun that we could relate to; Mr. Hammons never let us have any fun. Anyway, everyone was talking about the new instruments and how good they must be.

"I bet Parkside bought them so Mr. V wouldn't be so weird," Troy joked with some other section leaders.

"We don't need new instruments, though," Nate said, rubbing the bell of his beautiful mellophone. "Why would he order new ones?"

"That doesn't make sense at all," Luke muttered. "There's no way we have enough funds for everyone to have a new horn." Suddenly, the door to the parking lot opened, and Mr. V appeared as his usually crazy self. He was breathing hard and smiling like he had just built Rome in thirty minutes.

"Everyone…" he gasped, "outside!" We all waited a moment before rushing to the door. There was a big semi-truck parked in the middle of our newly formed drill field, and Elijah—oh Lord, Elijah—was standing next to it. Shirtless. My jaw completely dropped. Hannah, who had appeared out of no where, was digging her nails into my arm.

"What's going on?" she said. I just sort of shook my head, in awe. Elijah wiped his forehead with his shirt and leaned against the side of the truck to catch his breath. He actually looked up and smiled at me. Hannah squealed. "DID YOU SEE THAT?"

"Shut up!" I bit. Mr. V hopped up onto the metal ledge.

"Well, my budding Bachs, I have for you a special surprise."

"Yeah, we know," Troy blurted, who had earned a special place in Mr. V's heart. "New horns! Hand 'em out!"

"Easy there, Master Slater," Mr. V chuckled. "Elijah, if you could do the honors?" Elijah nodded and crawled up next to his father, fiddling with the metal door of the back storage. "These instruments were very graciously lent to us from another school—we will use these for a while and see what goes."

"Alright," Harvey grinned. "Let's see them!" As if on cue, the door rattled up and we all rushed forward to see what was inside. As if the shock of seeing a rather bare Elijah wasn't enough, what we found inside could have killed us all.

There was a scattered mess of beaten up, rusty old leather cases, some of the buckles missing and the corners frayed along with three or four white painted numbers to tell the story of how many schools had played them before us. Some of the handles were hanging by a thread, and the whole truck had a musty old smell. Kristie held her nose as she picked through to find a clarinet case. We clarinets crowded around to see what we were left with—it was wooden, but that was about the only good thing.

"Oh my God," clarinet-player Danielle moaned. "Is that electrical tape?"

"This doesn't even have a register key," I horrifically pointed.

"I can't play on this," Kristie coughed. "We can't play on this."

"No way!" We turned to see Troy picking up a trumpet; the bell was warped and almost orange from whatever turns brass to orange.

"Mr. V," Natalie cried. Mr. V was passing out horns to very disappointed students. "Mr. V, these instruments look like something out of _Frankenstein_!"

"Yes, they are masterpieces indeed," he chuckled, laughing at himself partially. There was barely enough for all of us; Kevin's clarinet didn't even have a bell. "If you could please listen carefully, scholars, I will explain."

"This better be good," Luke muttered, "because it certainly doesn't look good."

"These instruments are not the best, and you young masters of music are quite accustomed to the best—as you deserve." We looked like the little kids in Whoville after the Grinch had stolen Christmas. "These horns, however, need a bit of…love."

"If by love you mean an extreme make-over," Hannah grunted.

"I have a spring and three screws missing," I grumbled over the sorry little splinter of a clarinet I held.

"Students, please!" Mr. V clapped. "These horns will play. Good tones, however, will not be guaranteed. You'll have to work to get them to keep a steady tone—you'll have to learn how to fix and…build," he laughed, "your own instruments."

"This is a joke!"

"This is a test," Mr. V corrected. "Once you play on these instruments, you will be very happy to have your other ones back."

"What kind of brand is 'Discount Dave's'?" a very troubled saxophone asked.

"You have fifteen minutes to see how they work and get ready for music warm-up," Mr. V announced. "Be prepared for a fun-filled day!" I was figuring out how I would use a paperclip to keep my keys together when someone stuck a roll of tape in front of me. I looked to see Elijah grinning at me with a case full of different screws and such.

"The instrument ambulance at your service," he joked.

"Thanks," I grunted. "I hope this works—I'm not really a MacGyver."

"You're missing some cork on that bottom piece," he said, pulling some tape off and wrapping it around. "That'll work."

"How do you know so much about clarinets?" I smiled, impressed. Most brass players thought us reed players just sort of buzzed into the mouthpiece.

"I play," he said. "I can play clarinet, alto, and soprano sax." I think my jaw dropped.

"Wow," I sighed. "I guess that's what you get for being a band director's son."

"Yeah," he laughed a bit. "That excuses being able to play everything brass—diving into the woodwinds was my own fault." During our conversation, he had turned my pathetic clarinet into an ugly but fully functioning instrument. "There you go—good as new."

"Thanks, Elijah," I grinned. He smiled back. It was slowly getting used to him, I mean, the whole giddy-can't-talk-when-he's-around thing was beginning to calm down. Still, he was gorgeous. All the girls talked about him, never to him, but always about him. Troy was beginning to like him, and other juniors in his grade were hanging around him at practice. Anyway, Elijah wasn't as much the new kid anymore.

"Anytime." He ran off to some very lucky flutes who giggled and cooed as he fixed their instrument. I blinked back to reality and stuck my mouthpiece on the cracked barrel. The first few notes I managed to squeal out weren't very pretty, but after a while (just like Mr. V said) I was able to contain and control the sound. He was right—it did take work.

"So," Kristie said to my back. I turned around to see her and a few of her friends staring me down. "Are you tight with Mr. V's son, or what?"

"Tight?" I repeated.

"He always talks to you," Megan (I think) whined. "So, is he single?"

"Hey, I'm just trying to be his friend," I defended. "He's the new kid."

"Yeah, well," Kristie sighed, "he seems normal. Not like Mr. V."

"He is normal," I defended a little sharply. "He's a great guy."

"Yeah, really great," Megan agreed with an evil grin. I rolled my eyes. Yeah, I thought he was hot, but after a week of being one of the only girls to talk to him, I had found he was a really cool guy. There was a lot more to him than his looks. Especially that one look when he cocks his head when he smiles.

Practice was about to start, and I had to try and play with what was given to me. Mr. V had created this sort of attitude that we all fell into: practice time was for practice. When he came to the middle of the practice arc, we were all silent and ready. I looked around and saw how concentrated we all were, and it really hit me—we were getting better, and Mr. V was the reason.


End file.
